Playing for the Ashes (93 page)

My face was damp. My mouth had hung open as I slept and I’d smeared the page I’d been writing on. I thought, Thank God one can wake oneself up from dreams. Thank God dreams don’t really mean anything. Thank God…and then I heard it.

I hadn’t awakened myself at all. A noise had. A door was closing somewhere beneath me, the garden door.

The phone call, I thought. So I said nothing as my heart began to pound. Footsteps climbed the stairs from the kitchen. I heard the door open at the rear of the corridor. It closed. More footsteps. A pause. Then they came rapidly on.

The phone call, I thought. Oh God, oh God. I looked towards the telephone and willed myself to fly across the room and punch those triple nines so that I could yell my head off to the police. But I couldn’t move. Never had I been so aware of what the present meant and what the future promised.

CHAPTER
24

L
ynley concluded his meeting with Superintendent Webberly by gathering up the manila folders as well as the last three days of newspaper coverage. This latter material began with Jimmy Cooper’s plunge into the Thames on Tuesday evening. It continued with accounts of his being taken into custody on Wednesday morning—led from the George Green Comprehensive School with his head hanging and his shoulders sloping as he walked between two uniformed constables. Thursday, with headlines announcing that murder charges were about to be brought against the son of Kenneth Fleming, it pursued everything from graphics depicting the workings of the juvenile justice system to interviews with Crown prosecutors expressing their opinions about the age at which children should be tried as adults, and it ended with this morning’s recapitulation of the crime itself along with pertinent information about the Fleming family as well as a review of the career of the eminent batsman. All of the stories bore the same sub-textual message: The case was closed and the trial was pending. Lynley couldn’t have hoped for more.

“You’re certain the Whitelaw woman’s story checks out?” Webberly asked him.

“In every respect. Has done from the
fir
st.”

Webberly heaved himself from the chair he’d taken at the circular table at the beginning of their afternoon meeting. He strolled to his
fil
ing cabinets and scooped up a picture of his only child, Miranda. She was happily posing on the river terrace of St. Stephen’s College in Cambridge, her trumpet tucked under her arm. Webberly regarded her re
fle
ctively. He said to Lynley without raising his eyes, “You’re going to be asking a lot, Tommy.”

“It’s our only hope, sir. In the last three days, I’ve had the entire team go over every shred of evidence and every interview. Havers and I have been out to Kent twice. We’ve met with the Maidstone crime scene team. We’ve spoken to each neighbour within sighting distance of Celandine Cottage. We’ve combed the garden and the cottage itself. We’ve been to all of the Springburns and nosed round there. We’ve come up with nothing more than what we have already. As far as I can tell, there’s only one avenue left and that’s the one we’re following.”

Webberly nodded but didn’t look particularly happy with Lynley’s answer. He replaced Miranda’s photograph and wiped a speck of dust from its frame. He said in the same re
fle
ctive tone, “Hillier’s worked himself into a froth over this.”

“I’m not surprised. I’ve let the press come in close. I’ve abandoned established procedure. He wouldn’t like that, no matter the circumstances.”

“He’s called for another meeting. I’ve managed to put it off till Monday afternoon.” He shot Lynley a look that successfully communicated the unspoken peroration to his remarks: Lynley had until Monday to bring the case to a close. At that point, Hillier would pull rank on them all and assign another DI.

“Right,” Lynley said. “Thank you for keeping him out of my way, sir. That can’t have been easy.”

“I won’t be able to hold him off much longer. And not at all after Monday.”

“I don’t think you’ll need to.”

Webberly cocked an eyebrow at him. “That confident, are you?”

Lynley tucked the folders and the newspapers under his arm. “Not when all I’ve got to work with is a single untraceable telephone call. I can’t build a case on that.”

“Have at her, then.” The superintendent strolled back to his desk where he unearthed another case report from the general litter. He nodded Lynley on his way.

Lynley went to his own office where he deposited the case files but not the newspapers. He met Sergeant Havers on his way to the lift. She was flipping through a sheaf of typescript, frowning and muttering, “Hell, hell, hell,” and when she saw him, she halted, reversed direction, and matched her stride to his. She said, “Are we off somewhere, then?”

Lynley unhooked his pocket watch and flipped it open. Quarter to five. “Didn’t you mention a party this evening? ‘Wonderful Games Will Be Played/Delicious Refreshments Will Be Served’? Shouldn’t you be heading out to get ready?”

“Tell me, sir. What the hell am I supposed to buy for an eight-year-old girl? A doll? A game? A chemistry set? Nintendo? Roller blades? A flick knife? Water colours? What?” She rolled her eyes, but it was largely for effect. Lynley could tell she was pleased to be troubled with the task. “I could get her a Diablo,” she went on, chewing on the pencil she’d been using to tick against the typescript. “At Camden Lock, there’s a shop that sells them. Magician’s gear as well. I wonder…What d’you think about magician’s gear for an eight-yearold, sir? Or a costume? Kids like to play dressing up, don’t they? I could get her a costume.”

“What time is this party?” Lynley asked as he rang for the lift.

“Seven. What about war toys? Model cars? Airplanes? Rock and roll? D’you think she’s too young for Sting? David Bowie?”

“I think you’d be wise to start your shopping immediately,” Lynley said. The lift doors slid open. He stepped inside.

She was saying, “A skipping rope? A chess set? Backgammon? A plant? Great. What an idiot. A plant for an eight-year-old. What about books?” as the lift doors closed.

Lynley wondered what it would feel like to have so little to worry about on a Friday night.

Chris Faraday walked slowly along Warwick Avenue, from the underground station towards Blomfield Road. Beans and Toast loped ahead of him. They obediently dropped to their haunches at the street corner, anticipating the shouted command, “Walk, dogs!” that would permit them to cross Warwick Place and continue on their way to the barge. When the command didn’t come, they dashed back to rejoin him, and ran yelping circles round his legs. They were used to a consistent run, start to finish. He was the one who’d always insisted upon that. Given their preference, they would have chosen to dawdle, snuffling round rubbish bins and chasing stray cats whenever the opportunity arose. But he’d trained them well, so this break in routine left them confused. They expressed their bemusement with their vocal cords. They yapped.

They collided with each other. They bumped into his legs.

Chris knew they were there, and he knew what they wanted: speed, action, and the late-afternoon’s breeze flapping back their ears. They wouldn’t have objected to dinner as well, or a rubber ball thrown in the air for them to catch. But Chris was preoccupied with the
Evening Standard
.

The newspaper, which he’d purchased along the route of their run, featured yet another variation on the story it had been printing since mid-week. It had managed the coup of having a photographer on the Isle of Dogs when the boy had made his break from the police, and its editors appeared to be underscoring that fact. Today—Friday—with the accompanying headline “East End Drama,” the newspaper was committing a full page to the murder of Kenneth Fleming, the subsequent investigation, the Isle of Dogs chase after Fleming’s son, the near-drowning which had concluded that chase, and the sensational one-man rescue that followed. The river photographs were grainy because a telephoto lens had been used to shoot them, but the point they made was clear enough: The long arm of the law reached out to ensnare the guilty no matter what efforts were made to avoid it.

Chris folded the newspaper. He tucked it under his arm with the rest. He scuffed through the cherry blossoms that covered the pavement on Warwick Avenue, and he thought about his conversation with Amanda, late last night after he’d settled Livie in bed. All he’d been able to tell her truthfully was, “I don’t think it’s likely to work out the way we hoped.”

He had heard the fear in her voice despite her effort to sound collected. She’d said, “Why? Has something happened? Has Livie changed her mind?” And he could tell from her tone that she wasn’t so much afraid of the truth as she was afraid of being hurt by the truth. He knew she was saying without really saying, “Are you choosing Livie over me?”

He’d wanted to tell her that it wasn’t a matter of choosing anyone. The situation was far simpler than that. The path that had previously seemed logical and essentially uncomplicated was now not only tortuous but nearly impossible. But he couldn’t tell her that. To tell her that would be extending an inadvertent invitation to ask more questions, which he would want to answer even as he knew that he couldn’t.

So he’d told her that Livie hadn’t changed her mind, but that the circumstances revolving round her decision had altered. And when she asked how and said, “She’s rallied, hasn’t she? Oh God, what a horrible question to ask. I’ve been reduced to sounding as if I want her to die, and I don’t, Chris, I
don’t
,” he said, “I know that. It isn’t that, anyway. It’s just that Livie’s—”

“No,” she’d said. “You’re not to tell me. Not like this, with me wheedling on the phone like an adolescent. When you’re ready, Chris, when Livie is, you can tell me then.”

Which made him want to tell her all the more and to ask for her advice. But he’d said only, “I love you. That hasn’t changed.”

“I wish you were with me.”

“I wish the same.”

There was nothing more to say. Still, they had remained on the phone, prolonging the contact for another hour. It was after one in the morning when she’d said gently, “I must ring off, Chris.”

“Of course,” he’d said, “you’ve work at nine, haven’t you? I’m being sel
fis
h, holding on like this.”

“You’re not selfish. Besides, I want you holding on.”

He didn’t deserve her. He knew that, even as he kept himself going day after day solely, it seemed, with the thought of her.

The dogs had raced back to the corner of Warwick Avenue and Warwick Place. Tails wagging, they awaited his command. He caught them up and checked for traffic. He said, “Walk, dogs,” and sent them hurtling on their way.

Livie was on the deck where he’d left her, huddled into one of the canvas chairs with a blanket round her shoulders. She was staring at Browning’s Island where the willow trees looped leafy branches towards water and ground. She looked more wizened than he’d ever seen her, a presage of what the coming months held.

She roused herself when Beans and Toast clambered up onto the deck and snuf
fle
d at her left hand, which hung limply from the chair. She raised her head and blinked.

Chris laid the newspaper on the deck next to her, saying, “Nothing’s changed, Livie.” He went to fetch the dogs’ bowls from below as she began to read.

He gave the dogs fresh water. He poured out the food. Beans and Toast tucked in. While they gobbled and slurped, Chris leaned against the top of the barge’s cabin and turned his attention to Livie.

Since Saturday morning, she’d had him gather every newspaper for her. She read through each one, but she hadn’t allowed him to throw any of them away. Instead, after Saturday’s visit from the police, she’d had him carry the papers to her room and stack them next to her narrow bed. During the past few nights while he restlessly waited for sleep to come, he watched the striation that her reading light made against the open door of his room and he listened to her quietly turning the newspaper pages as she perused them a second and third time. He knew what she was reading. But he hadn’t known why.

She’d held her tongue longer than he would have thought possible. She’d always been the sort of person to shoot from the hip and regret it later when it came to speaking her mind, so at first he’d thought her withdrawal merely indicated an uncharacteristic contemplation of the events that had overtaken them all with Kenneth Fleming’s death. She’d
fin
ally told him everything because she’d had no choice. He’d been in Kensington on Sunday afternoon. He’d seen and he’d heard. All that was left was his quiet insistence that she share with him the burden of the truth. When she did so, he saw how his plans for his life would be altered. Which, he assumed, was why she hadn’t wanted to tell him in the
fir
st place. Because she knew, if she told him, that he would exhort her to come forward and speak. And if he did that, both of them knew that they would then be tied to each other until she died. Neither of them spoke of this consequence of her act of confession. They didn’t need to discuss the obvious.